


hello, are you still breathing?

by louisaeve



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6083637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisaeve/pseuds/louisaeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connie McDavid is:</p><p> </p><p>[ ] a hockey player</p><p>[ ] 20 years old</p><p>[ ] the next coming of Gretzky</p><p>[ ] a fan of Beyoncé</p><p>[ ] a woman</p><p> </p><p>(cross all that apply).</p><p>(After everything, the hit doesn't hurt as much as it should. It's what comes after. It always is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hello, are you still breathing?

**Author's Note:**

> My first real venture into RPF. I am so uncomfortable. If for some reason you know someone involved here . . . please. Stop.

Connie McDavid is: 

 

[ ] a hockey player

[ ] 20 years old

[ ] the next coming of Gretzky 

[ ] a fan of Beyoncé

[ ] a woman

 

( _cross all that apply_ ). 

 

_ 

 

The worst thing is, when the impact hits, all she can think is ‘ _well there goes the team again_.’ 

 

Okay, so she’s not exactly your average sophomore player in the NHL and she’s come to accept that, and more than that, be grateful for it. But in Edmonton, the great unbearable black hole that it is, she’s hardly the only number one pick among the roster. There’s Yakupov, Nugent-Hopkins and Hall, and the team is filled with excellent players. But there’s no denying that she’s the one who’s been dragging the whole lot of them up on a sleigh, and she feels a certain responsibility to them, like she’s entirely responsible for their success on her own. 

 

It’s only a secound later that the pain hits, sweet and heavy and dragging her to the floor. 

 

The thing about that much pain is, it’s too much for your body to take. Some people pass out. Others scream. Hockey players work through the pain, feel their head blur and start coughing up bile, on their hands and knees and not able to support the weight of even their pads. 

 

Later, Connie sees herself escorted off ice by Taylor and a medic, and she’s swaying under the pain. 

 

The camera spans to her teammates faces, and all of them mimic the fear she felt in her own stomach, and she pauses to wonder - are they worried for her, or are they worried about their playoff chances disappearing again? 

 

_ 

 

When Connie was a little girl, she’d spent her life on ice. 

 

Unlike other girls, she didn’t have time for sleepovers or shopping or teen movies or parties. 

 

Unlike her teammates, she didn’t take part in a lot of the partying or drinking and smoking they enjoyed on road trips and when they escaped their billet moms and dads gaze. 

 

Instead, when she was alone she went out onto the ice, and smacked pucks, one after the other into the goals. She watched herself on tape, rewinded and fast forwarded. Examined every move the Other Her made and watched and waited for something to tell her ‘this is right’ or tell her ‘this is wrong’. 

 

It made her a lonely child. It made her an amazing hockey player. It made her a failure of a girl. 

 

_ 

 

They take her out from under the anaesthesia after awhile. 

 

Mum is crying in the room then, tears streaming down her face, and her eyes glimmering. She looks she did those times Connie came home with stories about coaches hands on her and men that called out at her from cars. 

 

Dad is silent as always, with a solemn face, and when she looks at them all she thinks is _more people I’ve let down_. 

 

Connie turns her head to the side, and knows something is wrong. 

 

The doctor turns them out after awhile. She is a black woman with braids of honey gold and cheeks that ought to be stretched into a smile. She has a slight accent about her (but Connie is too tired to figure it out) and a gentle voice that sounds like she is a mother.

 

“You got hurt pretty badly honey,” she says, holding a clipboard like a preemptive shield against Connie’s anger, or hurt, or desperation. 

 

All she can think is _oh God, tell me I can still play hockey. Give me this one thing, please_. 

 

“The puck broke your pelvis. It disturbed your uterus,” the doctor goes on, and her face has that hopeless-sad-pitying-sympathetic tone that people always have when you’re sick. “We performed surgery and you will be able to play in a few months once more.” 

 

Connie breathes out a sigh of relief, and then a gasp that turns into stammering sobs, huge gulps of air that sink into the space between them. 

 

“But honey.” Connie goes still. “Your reproductive abilities are most likely, hindered.” 

 

_ 

 

 

Her first year at the Erie, Connie is alone. 

 

Sure she likes the guys that she plays with, as much as she’s liked any of her teammates, but she’s lonely. There’s no one really there for her, and more than that she knows that there is no one who is looking out for her. Or worse - boys who are jealous of her, and want to take something from her - her dignity or her pride or her joy or her _game_. 

 

She’s on edge around them. 

 

Dylan comes the secound year, and he’s different, or, there’s something different about him in that she makes an effort and tries to be closer to him. 

 

“I’m Connie McDavid,” she holds out her hand at camp, and he looks weirdly at her. 

 

“Dylan Strome,” he shakes her hand anyway, even though there’s no way anyone playing in the OHL doesn’t know who she is, and she knows who he is. 

 

But she doesn’t mention his brother, and he doesn’t mention the rumours that already picking up about her being the first overall, even though that’s a pretty heavy weight to carry as her teammate. 

 

On the next road trip, she sits on the bus next to him. 

 

_ 

 

“Honey,” Mum’s hands are in her hair, stroking absently. “Come on, you have to eat something.” 

 

They’ve taken her back to her childhood home, even though it’s the last place in the world she wants to be. Crowded and cramped with the pressure of expectations and the weight of everyone else hopes. It stings like the swabs against her stomach, like failure, and seeing all the pictures and awards that have been strung up makes her cry/ 

 

She eats something, although the only thing she can note is that it is hot and burns. 

 

Her phone pings again, and she asks her Mum to turn it off. 

 

_ 

 

Before the draft, she had snuck into Dylan’s hotel room. 

 

For the first time in awhile, they were truly alone, and he took one look at her face, and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her onto his bed with him, and propping the pair of them up against the headboard, letting her tuck her head into his neck, and feel his heartbeat. 

 

They both knew where they’re going tomorrow. 

 

“You’ll do great,” Dylan muttered into her hair, and she felt a pang, knowing she was selfish for asking for this comfort when she _knew_ , they all knew that she would be going first, and Dylan was in a slightly murky third. 

 

“I know,” Connie laughs, but the words catch bitter and ugly in her throat and sound like a jab. 

 

It’s then she allows herself to sob into his shirt, really and truly, because she’s going to _Edmonton_. She’s going so far away and going to be so lonely, and if she really admits it, she had the dreams like the rest - of raising her stick above her head, of kissing the Cup, of being a hero in a pair of skates. She wants her goddamn _Miracle_ moment, but this isn’t the 1980 Olympics, and she decided against Boston. 

 

And she cries because if she can’t have another girl on her team, she wanted Dylan, she wants Dylan, or Marner, or even Noah Hanifin. Wanted some sort of comfort, wanted some sort of accompaniment, but it’s not there. 

 

All she’s ever got is the ice. Sometimes, she imagines it sinking into her heart and turning her into the Snow Queen from Grimm fairytales. 

_ 

 

It takes two weeks for Connie to check her phone. 

 

When she first presses the on button, the screen stays black, and she realises that the reason it hasn’t been going off _at all_ is because it has been flat for around the last week and a half. 

 

Then she runs around the house (okay, walks slowly and through lots of pain) looking for a charger that fits. She finally finds one in Cameron’s room, which she steals out and plugs in next to her bed, and waits. 

 

Then she gets to see all her notifications. 

 

_(23 missed calls)_

_(68 text messages)_

_(345 WhatsApp messages from 9 different chats)_

_((23) Snapchat)_

 

She clicks through the Snapchat ones first, because she doesn’t want to deal with anything Serious. 

 

They’re funny too, like the boys at the Erie and the Oilers and spread across the NHL have made a special effort for her, and she cries a little, before she finishes. Then, she responds to half of the text messages. The ones from friends, or past teammates, or loved ones like her cousin she doesn’t see very often since he left for university in London, with a few words, and when those fail, little emojis.  

 

(She likes to add the cat for a bit of variety.) 

 

_ 

 

Connie likes Mitch, at least as much as she likes any other guy in the OHL other than Dylan. 

 

He’s funny too, and it’s amusing that he’s so short that even she’s taller than him. 

 

Dylan didn’t always like Mitch, but they get along now, and for that she’s glad for (even though there had been a few moments when she was down on herself and lonely and longing for company that she thought that _good, now Dylan will ditch her like he was always meant to and she’ll be alone like she deserves_ ). It’s good, to sit between Mitch and Dylan on the couch of the hotel room, as one of them plays some reality show about mining. 

 

Dylan sits solid on one end, his presence heavy, and Mitch is on the other, squirming every now and then. 

 

When it gets too much, Connie, who has curled her legs up underneath her on the couch, feels Dylan lean across her and slap Mitch on the shoulder. It sends a jolt through her as his arm rests on her shoulder just briefly and she flushes red, angry at herself. 

 

He moves his arm back quickly enough, not thinking anything of it, but Connie does, and she’s angry at herself, leaping up quickly off the couch, and flying off to the toilet. 

 

She hears them mutter behind her, and she’s just closing the door as Dylan grasps his hand on the handle. 

 

“You okay Davo?” He asks, face twisted into a frown. “You left quickly.” 

 

“I’m fine,” Connie flashes a quick smile. “Just need the bathroom.” 

 

“You sure nothing’s wrong?” 

 

He’s still frowning. 

 

“I’m fine Stromer,” Connie smiles, and then throws out the first excuse that comes to mind. “Lady things.” 

 

His face tinges a little white. 

 

It’s so amusing that it takes her mind off her real problems. It’s not as if the boys are unaware of the reality of the fact that yes, she does have periods, but it’s always in a kind of abstract way. She deals with it privately, takes a lot of pain medication, and doesn’t mention it. But even from hockey players who regularly deal with injuries and the blood they entail, somehow, periods are a type of horrific nightmare that is impossible for them to imagine. 

 

But Dylan doesn’t make a face or say something dumb like so many of her other teammates would have. “Do you need like, _things_?” 

 

He’s sincere enough it makes her laugh. 

 

“No, I just need some space.” 

 

He nods, and leaves quickly, and then she’s left by herself in the bathroom, and locks the door. 

 

Then, Connie takes the minutes she has to breathe, slow and deep until it makes her dizzier than just letting her breathes come out short and sharp would have. 

 

It’s not as if she hasn’t had a crush before. Hell, she’s had crushes on teammates before - how many other people is she around? And she _knew_ of course, that she liked Dylan. He’s just - he’s a lot to her, and that translates so easily into something romantic. But it’s catching her by surprise now, because she’d been doing something that she does so regularly it’s as regular as the sound of a puck hitting the ice. And her damn stupid feelings are catching her by surprise out of nowhere, and it’s _not allowed_. 

 

Connie sniffles, and she’s a little shocked to find that she is actually crying, so much so that the tears come a little faster. She washes her face off with cold water and dries it off with her hoodie, and then goes back out. 

 

Dylan pulls her closer to him and she tucks her feet between the cushions of the couch, and even Mitch has calmed down, watching the television. 

 

There’s a carefulness to the room now, even if she is the only one who feels it, but she lets Dylan hold her with an arm around her shoulder and ignores why exactly it feels so good that he is. 

 

_ 

 

Her Mum wants to talk about the injury. 

 

“Con, pumpkin, you’ve got to talk about it, okay,” she says while Connie is eating her porridge with honey and blueberries. The blueberries were expensive, but they’re a special treat. 

 

She grunts back. 

 

“Honey,” her Mum slides into the seat across from her, a sympathetic, pitying look on her face. “It’s important that we talk about these things. It’s what makes us human.” 

 

She grunts again. 

 

“I’ve booked a therapist for you.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Good.” 

 

Sometimes it’s just easier to agree. 

 

_ 

 

The therapist is a man whose eyes look like the coach she had once when she was thirteen. 

 

Hungry. 

 

As soon as she sees him, she knows she’s not going to say anything. Not that she would have, not really, but now she knows for sure. 

 

He smiles and introduces himself and she says _yes, I’m Connie_ , and when he asks if she’s okay, she says that she is hurt and can’t play hockey and not in Edmonton. Therefore, she is sad. (One part of that is not true.) He is a Sport Therapist and used to men and fighting and power and anger, and she is tired of it, but it is also Whatever. So she smiles and nods and says _it helped_ to her Mum when she asks, and vows never to go again and waste that sort of money on such a terrible experience in her life. 

 

Cameron calls her and she eventually answers and when he asks gruffly if she is okay she nods. Then, she remembers he can’t see her and says yes. 

 

It’s a strange dynamic. Connie loves her brother, but she doesn’t always like him. 

 

In that regard, they practically have the same relationship as every other brother and sister in the world. It’s uncharacteristic for him to be the one enquiring after her after so many years, and it bears the brunt of her mother’s interference. 

 

She lies her ass off and says it’s all good. 

 

_

 

When she first arrives at the Oilers prospect camp, she’s aware of the pressure immediately. 

 

More than that, there are the kind of team dynamics she knows well going on, as well as the sort of slightly weird, off putting relationships that have blistered. 

 

There’s something strange going on between Hall and Eberle, just a little, and Connie ends up spending a fair bit of time with Ference, who’s a good guy and also, stable. 

 

She’s lonely again. 

 

_ 

 

After four weeks, her bedroom makes her sick, and she wants to cry out of frustration. 

 

She pulls on her coat, and buries her cheeks in the thick expanse of a mustard woollen scarf that she was informed was very trendy, but really was only brought to be comfortable. Then, she pulls on her gloves, puts her key, ten dollars and her phone in her pocket and goes for a walk. 

 

It’s cold outside, and she shivers through, but eventually the pain and the movement work up until she’s quite warm and flushed slightly. 

 

The streets she’d grown up on are slippery and she walks slowly, careful of falling and aware that doing so could set her back by a fair bit. They’re empty too, abandoned by their youthful occupants in the wake of school, and there’s something eerie about it. 

 

Connie loves the feel of the wind pulling at her skin, at her breath that mists, the cool that licks between her fingers. It’s winter and she has never loved a season more. 

 

She walks to the empty playground in the desolate park, abandoned by the younger child both for heat and for lunch, and she sits herself down on the swing, hears it creak under her weight and winces, before pulling her phone out of her pocket. 

 

It’s an ice cold brick that she has to pull one glove off to click on the contact number, and put on speaker so she can hold it away from her face, but then she’s comfortable as she waits for Dylan to pick up. 

 

“Connie?” His voice is breathless, like he’s just come off a shift. 

 

“Hey,” she says. “How are you?” 

 

“I’m good, yeah, I’m really good,” he mutters out, the words tumbling from his mouth, eager to spill out. “How are you?” 

 

“Fine,” Connie says. Then she laughs. “No, but I am getting better. Much better.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I left the house for the first time today by myself.” 

 

Dylan lets out a whimper, something sympathetic and hurt all at once. “Connie.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“This isn’t like before, is it?” 

 

They don’t talk about the dark months in her rookie season, about watching from the sidelines and crying in the dark late at night and the time she didn’t wash her hair for a week, until Hallsy forced her into the shower and sat outside the bathroom, listening to make sure she was didn’t fall. 

 

Connie pauses. “No. Of course not.” 

 

_ 

 

Once, Connie had been a cute five. Then, when people paused from commenting on her hockey, they murmured _oh, you’re so cute_ and trying to squeeze her cheeks. 

 

By fifteen, hockey had overtaken her whole self. Mum had decided to give up on her by then, and stopped buying dresses and shoes and nail polish. Not that she hadn’t necessarily liked those things, but as a hockey player she had no space for it in her life. 

 

She remembered being that girl watching the others - she had never learnt how to apply makeup, and sometimes she looked enviously at the pretty lines on the girls faces at school. 

 

More than once she found herself staring at the couples who gathered by the doors. 

 

The girls with star crossed eyes or flowers that they presented with a kiss, and the boys who flushed slightly, or pressed their partner against the wall to kiss. She envied them, for their freedom and their joy and mostly, their companionship. But then a teammate would come and sweep her away and she’d go, and not think about love, or dresses, or the things she would like in another world. 

 

_ 

 

The Oilers make it through Game 1 of the playoffs. 

 

It’s such a laughable thought that Connie spends the evening cackling after, delirious off the last remnants of pain killers, and she laughs until she weeps with amusement. They lost, of course, but Connie’s pain is making her bitter enough that she is angry and amused all at once. 

 

She sometimes feels like she’s Carey Price, but her team tends to actually appreciates her. That, and the coach at least tries to let them score for her, so. 

 

Mitch calls her. 

 

“Hey, how’s everything?” 

 

“We just lost Game 1,” she cackles down the phone, her hand placed absently on the bottom of her stomach. 

 

“We didn’t even get in.” 

 

The pair sit in silence before bursting into laughter, until Connie’s gasping away the giggles harshly and the tears are starting to leak out. 

 

“I hear you’re doing better Davo, my girl,” Mitch says, his voice too light for the weight he’s carrying in his mind. “At least, that’s the official position.” 

 

“Sure I am,” Connie agrees. 

 

“Stromer says that that’s a load of bullshit from the front office. That sure, you’re healing. But you aren’t okay.” Mitch pauses. “You’re not okay are you Connie?” 

 

“Sure I am. I get to play hockey at the beginning of the season.” 

 

Mitch’s laugh catches. “You’re not, Connie.” 

 

“I will be.” 

 

_ 

 

She thinks she will spend the rest of the summer working out alone. That’s what she’s been doing now, that she’s a little bit better, spending her nights watching the X-Files and Seinfeld reruns while she curls up on the couch, and spends her days running through the streets or in the stinking gym or pushing through litre after litre of water. 

 

It’s on one such night that her Mum knocks on her door and cracks it open. “I’ve got a visitor for you.” 

 

Connie’s about to groan when she realises that it’s not some strange friend of her mother’s, or some kid on the block that she knew when they were in primary school. Instead, it’s Dylan. 

 

He’s wearing some dumb, too soft smile that she’s seen before only when she’s vulnerable. It’s only when he steps forward and into the dull terribly lit room by her computer screen that he seems to reach his usual joy at seeing her. 

 

She blinks once, can’t quite believe it, and then feels her face crumble. 

 

Dylan bounds forward, wraps her in his arms and she doesn’t sob into his chest, but his shoulder, as she clings to him, tries to draw closer as she presses her heart agains his until it seems like their heartbeats are matching up and they’re breathing the same, in and out, in and out. 

 

“I missed you so much,” she mutters, and then regrets it. 

 

(The thing about hockey bros, is well, you’re hockey bros. And tradition indicates no emotions should be shown and no physical interactions should be made that are off the ice.) 

 

“You too Connie,” he murmurs back, and her cheeks take on a warm flush. 

 

_ 

 

Nail:

_I was so shocked to see you in that condition Connie, and it shocked us all. The injury was brutal. I am wishing you a speedy and healthy recovery, and hope to play with you in the new season. We are all hoping that you are able to regain your strength and also, that you truly feel capable. If you need anything, let me know._

 

Connie: 

_thanks nail! i will_

 

___

 

Dylan tells her they’re going to go on a holiday. 

 

“Stromer, I have to have check ups,” she brushes him off as she makes a peanut butter sandwich and licks a spoonful straight off the knife, grinning at him. 

 

“Your mum’s already approved it,” he grins back. “I booked the tickets last night while you were sleeping.” 

 

The thing is, Connie wants to be annoyed with him for being so presumptuous, but she can’t find the energy. All she can do is shrug, nod and say, okay. It’s easier that way, to think like nothing’s going to happen, because they’ve talk ed about it lots, but the next day, while Connie’s reading some trashy romance novel that makes her cheeks flush, he comes in and grins. 

 

“Three hours until we leave. Come on, you better start packing.” 

 

“What?” Connie frowns and narrows her eyes. 

 

“We leave and you better get moving. Start putting everything in your suitcase cause I’m not going to be waiting for you.” 

 

Her Mum isn’t any help, because she makes a face at Connie. “Go on. I already told Dylan that he had permission to take my daughter half way across the world.” 

 

“Half way - ?” Connie sits up, screwing her face up in confusion. “Where are we going?” 

 

Two and a half hours later, her suitcase full. There is: 

 

\- one pair of bathers

\- one pair of flip flops

\- three pairs of shorts

\- five shirts

\- a sundress

\- two jeans

\- one hoodie

\- one skirt

\- twelve sets of underwear 

\- three bras 

 

All she knows, is they’re going somewhere warm. 

 

_ 

 

At six thirty, they touch down in Houston, Texas. 

 

It’s a hot, and she feels the heat rise against her skin almost immediately as they step off the plane, and she drags the hoodie she’d worn on the plane off, and lets the humidity drag against her face. 

 

“It’s hot,” Dylan remarks, although it’s more than a little obvious. 

 

“It’s Texas,” she smiles. 

 

_

 

The hotel is _nice_ too, the kind of place they never stayed when they were playing in the OHL. 

 

They’re NHL money now though, and Connie knows she can more than afford it. 

 

It’s one room, with two doubles, a huge walk in and an almost separate lounge room. 

 

Connie whistles, low, the way her Dad taught her when she was a little girl. “You really sprung for this, eh?” 

 

“Nothing but the best for you,” he grins, teasing, and she shoves him in the shoulder. 

 

“Fuck off,” she rolls her eyes. 

 

They go out to dinner at some sort of low-key restaurant, a hole in the wall which makes amazing Mexican and the two of them shoved into a tiny, teeny table in the corner, their legs knocking each other underneath. Being back with him is as easy as breathing, just as natural. 

 

Sometimes Connie feels like the two of them share something deeper, something innocent in their vulnerability with each other. That they’ve beenjoined by their experiences in a way that others won’t ever be able to understand, something that will stretch between them for the rest of their lives. 

 

That night, Connie doesn’t feel the sometimes embarrassment she sometimes feels around him. The vulnerability she feels living in her body even after the locker rooms and bus trips and nights crammed into hotel rooms with him and half a dozen others. Instead, there’s a comfort to it, and they lie on their beds in a steady silence. 

 

“Night Stomer.” 

 

“Night Davo.” 

 

_ 

 

In the morning, Dylan drives them out to some building. 

 

Connie’s in a pair of shorts and a shirt, and she pushes her feet onto the dashboard of the rented car, and eyes the chipped red paint on her toenails, a remnant of the Before. 

 

Nothing hurts today, and she smiles up at him and puts the radio on and sings along obnoxiously aloud until he rolls his eyes and pushes lightly at her shoulder. 

 

They go to a huge ranch. 

 

The man who greets them is a football fan, and wearing a t-shirt jersey, and he smiles and calls her darlin’, before handing her a rifle. 

 

Connie’s never actually handled one before, and is against guns in the use of private citizens, but there’s a set of ceramic ducks lined up for her. Dylan nods to her, and then she fires. 

 

She shoots them all down after a secound attempt, some sort of accuracy from her years of hockey falling in, and they shatter splendidly, an explosion of white tumbling. She stares wide eyed at them, and presses her fingers along the rifle’s length, drags them up and down until she’s almost smiling. It’s what ends up on Dylan’s Snapchat. 

 

( _Connie . . ._ _)_

 

_ 

 

McDavid is: 

 

[ ] a bitch on the ice

[ ] a goddamn genius with a hockey stick 

[ ] 20 years old

[ ] lonely

[ ] stuck by herself forever 

 

( _cross all that apply_ ) 

 

\- 

 

The summer clings to her limbs heavy and deep, andslicks her limbs with sweat in a way that isn’t uncomfortable after so many months in the sickly sweet of winter. 

 

She wants to go to the beach, she decides in the morning, and wakes Dylan up early. 

 

He’s shirtless is what she first notices, with bare chest glistening just a little with sweat from the heat of the night. His hair is mussed up, and bleary eyed from the night. It’s nothing she has not seen before, but the sheets are twisted around his thighs and the top of his boxers elastic tight on his hip bone. She blinks, once, then twice, and Dylan smiles up to her. 

 

“You okay Davo?” He grins, curious as to why she’s staring no doubt. 

 

“I -“ In a fit of embarrassment, Connie flushes red and knows that she’s been staring, and more than that he’s noticed. “I want to go to the beach.” 

 

“The beach?” 

 

He’s frowning, and she slumps against the floor, leaning her head on the side of her bed, and looking up at his form. Dylan has to lean up then to be able see her. She knows what he’s thinking. She’s never liked beaches, with the sand that gets everywhere, and the salt water that sticks in her hair and leaves it like straw, and the boys were always happy to quickly rinse off and leave her feeling gross all day. She’s even told him as much, and he remembers. 

 

“I want to go swimming.” 

 

“You hate swimming at the beach though,” he murmurs back, blinking slowly, as if sleep has numbed his brain and he doesn’t know if he’s right or not. “You hate the beach.” 

 

Connie shrugs and doesn’t know how to explain it to him. 

 

“We can leave this afternoon,” he smiles readily. “I was going to ask you where you wanted to go next anyway.” 

 

_ 

 

They fly to L.A. and she smiles wide and deep. 

 

Dylan doesn’t want the heat like she does, has felt it linger for too long this year, but he’s put up with Houston heat for her, and _he_ actually likes the beach. 

 

The first photos posted of her in a long while is her in a sundress of yellow with glasses on her head and the straps of her blue bathing suit peaking out as she laughs at Dylan. 

 

That day, she doesn’t swim, but she watches, and digs her toes into sand until grains collect between the thick nail of her big toe and the skin resting under, and drags her fingers through the grains, and eventually lays her head on the ground, tangle the pieces through her hair. 

 

Dylan sits next to her, dripping wet onto her neck and making her roll her eyes and push at him. 

 

She’s sun drunk, heat dazed and happy, wants to in this moment lie naked on the sand and let the sun soak into every inch of her body. She probably would do it too, if she was alone on the beach and there was no one else around. 

 

“You’re going to burn to pieces,” Dylan laughs, and pokes the bridge of her nose. 

 

(When they get back to the hotel room, she’s cherry red and scowling, dehydration bringing with it annoyance, but he only laughs.) 

 

_ 

 

Noah Hanifin joins them. 

 

Connie doesn’t have a problem with him - he’s a good guy, and she gets along well with him. Dylan and him get along even better. 

 

“I saw all of the crazy action on Snapchat and decided I couldn’t let the two of you traipse through America without any guide,” he grins cheerfully.

 

He’s wearing a cap, slipped slightly to the side, and she’d make a joke about him if she had the time, but she’s got one of Dylan’s pulled over her hair to mask the fact that yeah, she didn’t wash her hair last night and it low-key needs it. In her defines though, she could pass as lobby chic, while Noah looks like nothing other than the frat boy he is, even if he skipped outta Boston for Carolina. 

 

“We’re glad to have you Hanny,” Dylan grins, and Connie nods, sipping on her grape juice like she’s healthy or something. 

 

“Yeah, I was getting bored with just Stromer for company,” she smirks. 

 

Hanny grins at her and she feels a burst of warmth. 

 

“So, we going to the beach or what?” 

 

_ 

 

She’s got the same one piece on underneath her shorts and shirt, a polka dot blue patterned piece with a low back and high cut. Her Mum had picked it out and said it was cute, but in reality it made her feel awkward. Like a little girl playing at being sexy. She’s athletic, everywhere, and while she has breasts, she’s not exactly a Kardashian. 

 

But Noah and Dylan want her to go swimming, so she’s got little other option. 

 

She ends up in the water next to them, and Dylan smiles softly at her, as if he knows that she is uncomfortable with everything, and feels how often she rests her hand on her stomach. 

 

The boys splash around with each other, play like they’re still children, endlessly eager to amuse themselves like school boys do, with jokes and fighting and chirps until they are soaked through. 

 

Connie lays back and lets the sun soak into her again. 

 

And is dunked into the water. 

 

“Fuck!” She squeals, coming back up out of the water and coughing up salty water as Dylan and Noah laugh themselves into hysterics. 

 

She flips them off and scowls, drags herself out of the beach and pulls her towel over her, her hair now sodden through. “I’m freezing you assholes,” she scowls. 

 

The pair snort, giggling and she scowls harder, pulling on her shorts and shirt, and flicking water on them. 

 

Eventually, as she’s stomping away, the others realise she’s pissed off, and Dylan wraps an arm around her shoulders, laughing at her. “Aw, come on, Con, you know we’re only joking.” 

 

“You can make it up to me by buying me a drink in some bar. Wherever the hell we are,” she scowls. 

 

“We’re on Venice beach babe,” Noah laughs. “We’ll find that for you easy enough.” 

 

_ 

 

In the bar they sit and talk slowly. 

 

It’s the sleazy sort of bar that litters all of the tourists spots, that smells of smoke and PBR and cheap vodka sloshed on the floor, and a little like sex and desperation. It’s not so unbearable when she’s got Noah and Dylan on either side of her though, not the way it is when she sometimes gets forced to go out with her teammates, the edge of loneliness that reeks. 

 

“So what are you up to this summer?” Dylan asks. 

 

“Nothing much,” Noah shrugs. “Hanging around. Going back home and to see -“ 

 

The pause lingers between them for a moment. They all know what the next word would have been. Connie’s a little drunk though and overall, happy, so she doesn’t care. And honestly, she’s over who doesn’t like her and who doesn’t care about her, after the two season’s she’s had, doesn’t care about it all. Only who loves her and who’s checking for her. (No one checks for her but her family. Sometimes her teammates are part of that family. Sometimes they’re not.) 

 

“Going to see old friends,” Noah finishes lamely. 

 

Connie giggles. Noah’s never lame. If she’s honest, she’s always awkward around him, because she knows that he’s prettier than she is, and she’s jealous of that on some level, jealous of not having that sort of ease. (Jealous of a lot.) 

 

Just like that, she’s crying, and pushing past Dylan and Noah’s worried hands before she finds her way to the bathroom. 

 

The bathroom is filthy, but mercifully empty, and she pulls herself up onto the counter, sobbing and gasping, putting her hand against her mouth as if to hide the terrible sound of her crying. It doesn’t work. 

 

Connie is terrified, for a single moment, wondering if they can hear her even back inside, before she shakes her head, and thinks _well, they already know what I’m doing_. They just don’t know why. 

 

The sobs coming slower, steadier, she pulls herself off the counter and pulls up her shirt and over her head, then pulls her bathing suit down, and holds her shirt over her breasts to preserve modesty, or at least so as not to assault anyone else who was walking in. 

 

In the grim lighting, the surgery scar is not so scary. It looks a lot smoother, the individual puncture marks that had been made by the stitches she had been given after the surgery not so obvious. 

 

If she blinks her eyes a little and lets her tears blur her vision, you can barely see them. They disappear like boys footsteps in new snow, and she looks almost like a normal teenage girl. Slowly, Connie closes her eyes and strokes her thumb along the place above the scars. It’s silky smooth with well toned skin and she can almost believe it’s what makes up her whole stomach. 

 

That’s what makes her gag, the thought pulling her down until her knees hit the ground of the grimy bathroom, and she sobs. 

 

On her knees in a strange bathroom she feels like she’s in an almost prayer, to a strange God. The God of small things, or of women. Or maybe she should be praying to the hockey gods, the strange and benevolent creatures who give and take in turn. ( _First round pick, 20 million dollar contracts, a beautiful wife, a lovely home_ , and in the next _divorce, torn hamstrings, headliner photos, AHL contracts, concussion, a puck to the spinal cord_ ). 

 

She pulls her top back on, and goes in the toilet to throw up. 

 

The beer has sat ugly and deep in her stomach, and it is ugly when it comes up, until she is gagging again and again. 

 

Eventually, she wipes at her face, until she makes it out to the boys. 

 

They’re cautious with her. Connie absently wonders if it’s because she’s crying, or because she’s been injured. She laughs a little more, until the laughter bubbles out of her and lies in the spaces between them, awkward and wanting more. 

 

Eventually, she sighs. 

 

“Let’s go get something to eat. I want Turkish.” 

 

_ 

 

They fly from California to Indiana, and then drive. 

 

Connie curls up against the window, and lets Dylan drive. 

 

As they clear through Ohio, the rain comes in and she opens the window, lets it fall on her hand, her bare leg, against her shirt until it sticks to her, until Dylan turns to her. 

 

“Can you close that up please Connie?” 

 

He’s so polite. She almost laughs, and lets it close up before she even opens her mouth. 

 

“Sure Dylan,” she presses the button. 

 

He turns on the radio. 

 

_‘And I cried for my Lord, but he didn’t want nothing but love. And since September, I’ve known nothing about love. Felt anything for love.’_

 

She tells him to pull over, and smiles softly at him when he looks at her questioningly. His eyes follow her, slide over her thighs and her collarbone as he parks the car and she tilts towards him. 

 

“What are you doing?” He asks her as she leans towards him. 

 

When she imagined this, she thought it would be happy. Or she’d feel the butterflies in her stomach unleash, or he’d smooth a thumb over her jawbone. Nervous, anxious, teenage love movie ridden with cliches and hopes and dreams. 

 

Instead, she is hardly nervous. She has hockey, and her family. And at the end, she has Dylan, which is what this whole trip has been about. A _hello, Connie, I will love you forever_. 

 

So she leans forward and kisses him, knows that she can be selfish and get skin to skin contact that won’t betray her because she is sad and there is nothing he hates as much as a sad Connie. And because he feels he owes her for being absent, because he feels he has some sort of duty to her and her _McJesus_ ways, and she is so tired and sad and lonely that she is willing to take advantage of it. 

 

When she kisses him, he tastes of the apple he had eaten fifty miles back, and his hands grasp at her waist, only to move to her hips as she seats herself on his lap. 

 

She kisses, and he lets her, and the sounds are lonely but taste sweet. 

 

___

 

_@cmcdavid97: missing my boy stromer more than ever_. _can we go back to june already?_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So you might not guess, but as a little girl, I was the best in my league. When I got my period, I told my dad I wanted to quit. He had a son by then, so he didn't care. It wasn't hockey, but I love hockey. I never finished, and Connor McDavid isn't Connie as far as I'm aware, but that is what I know and love. It's what is dear to my heart. 
> 
> I meant for this to be happy, but I am not happy. And Connie has lost so much. Not something definite, but the possibility of something and I am sorry for her, for all women who experience this. It's not sex and it's not happy. This is painful, like love or loss or hope, or life. I love these two, and I also love women who play hockey. And this is what reaches more people. Girls with skates in the NHL is what lots of us dream about. Only when we dream, the girls on the ice aren't three and with last names like Fleury, but 20, 25, 30 with names like Chu and Poulin and Knight and Kessel, and they aren't wearing little skirts and shaking pom poms, but in a set of pads and hockey skates. 
> 
> My thoughts are with them, tonight as all nights. (Ya Allah, sometimes the pain sinks into me at night and I struggle to imagine other girls going through what I did, even to a level out of love for a sport that will never love them.) 
> 
> My experiences with the Locker Room might continue in the future through the use of the NHL and fic. I don't know.


End file.
